The Old Familiar Sting
by jojospn
Summary: TRIGGER WARNING: The main plot of this story involves suicide and self harm. PLEASE DO NOT READ if this in any way might make you feel uncomfortable. An alternate ending to Auto Erotic Assimilation


**A/N: WARNING, this fic mentions suicide and self harm. Please, if in any way you feel that this might be uncomfortable or disturbing, or that the reader may be feeling similar thoughts, PLEASE pass this one by. An alternate ending to "Auto Erotic Assimilation". Title from ``Hurt`` by Nine Inch Nails. I don`t own _Rick and Morty,_ that belongs to the geniuses that are Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland.**

 **The Old Familiar Sting**

Morty first notices something isn't right when there is no three AM wake up call.

Rick has been pulling him from the blissful clutches of peaceful sleep ever since he first moved in, much to the fourteen-year-old's disgust, always with a flask or bottle of some sort in his grasp, and generally either drunk or flat out shit faced. Always with a "come on, Morty" and a snide remark when the teen would rightfully point out that it was three in the goddamn morning and it was a school night. "School is a waste of time," his grandfather would repeat like clockwork every time Morty would protest, until eventually the boy gave in, even becoming accustomed to his disrupted sleep schedule. Despite the fatigue, the high risk, and overall absurdity of many of their adventures, the promise of spending more time with his fucked up Grandpa Rick was always enough to keep Morty from pulling the plug.

When Morty awakens at the reasonable hour of six-thirty Wednesday morning, his initial reaction is confusion. While it is definitely refreshing to be able to get at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, it is slightly unnerving that Rick has not made any attempt to rouse him. _He had a rough night with Unity,_ he tells himself as he crawls out of bed, wiping sleep blurred eyes as he makes his way to the bathroom. _He's probably passed out somewhere. He'll be hungover and pissed this afternoon._ And so Morty prepares for the day, slightly concerned but far from anxious. He knows his grandfather, after all. Drinking himself into near oblivion is par for the course. He sits at the breakfast table, listening to his parents argue while Summer eats her own breakfast in silence, tapping away at her phone in between forkfuls of scrambled egg and hash browns.

"H-has anyone seen Rick lately?" Morty finally asks when at last there is a break in the yelling. Both look at him, his mom only slightly concerned and his dad indifferent. The response comes not from either of his parents, but from his older sister, eyes still glued to the screen of her iPhone. "Probably passed out somewhere." There is still resentment in her voice, and Morty can't say that he doesn't blame her. After all, Rick _had_ just abandoned them in favour of one last epic fuck with Unity. For all he knows, his grandfather is still there.

"Dad can take care of himself," his mother finally reassures, a rehearsed smile on her face. Whether she is masking genuine concern for her children's sake or she is simply impatient to get back to fighting with his dad, Morty isn't quite sure. Instead, he shovels down the last of his breakfast, reaches for his backpack and heads out the back door. He considers stopping into the garage, just to be sure that everything is ok, but at the sound of the school bus turning a corner, decides against it. Rick is fine. He always is. Settling into the first available bench, Morty pulls out his math text and tries to distract himself with finishing up his assigned homework, only to find himself unable to concentrate, and eventually he gives up. He can't quite understand why he is all of a sudden worried about his grandfather. Rick has been going on adventures long before even his mother was born. He can most certainly take care of himself.

But the incessant anxiety refuses to let go in homeroom, and only intensifies during first period. His history teacher drones on about the ancient Romans and it is all Morty can do to keep from bolting out of the room. _He's fine. He's fine. Stop being a goddam pussy, he's fucking_ fine.

After what seems like hours, the bell rings and Morty gets the hell out of Dodge. The boy has already decided that he isn't going to get through the day without at least checking up on Rick. Hell, he's missed enough time anyway, what's one more period? His father is the only one home, and no doubt he will be too busy wallowing in self pity over his current employment status to notice, or care, that he isn't in school. As he walks, the fear begins to ebb, replaced by a burning anger. How _dare_ he pull this shit? Scaring the crap out of his family (well, at least _him_ ) with no regard for the consequences. By the time he turns the corner onto his street, Morty is seething.

He isn't surprised when he turns into his drive and finds the garage door open, his grandfather passed out at his work bench. "Aww, J-jesus Rick," he mutters, angrily making his way towards the older man. He tosses his backpack at his feet and leans closer to check on him, wincing in disgust at the stench of alcohol and sweat. "Ok, R-Rick, I get it. Jesus Christ!" No response, not even a groan, and this time Morty's full on panicking. "Grandpa Rick?" He gently turns his head and immediately freezes, eyes wide in horror. He may be only fourteen, but Morty immediately recognizes the deathly pallor on his face and he backs away, shaking violently. "Jesus Christ!" he repeats, stumbling a little. The nausea returns full force and Morty immediately loses his breakfast on the cement floor. This can't be happening. Rick can't be _dead._ No. Nononono...

When at last the heaving eases up, Morty rushes into the kitchen, praying that someone, _anyone,_ is home. But the place is empty. Of course. His mother is at work, and his dad is probably out golfing. "Shit," he mutters, pulling his cell from his back pocket. Before he even calls 911 Morty scans his contacts list and fires a quick text to Summer: _call me._ It takes a few attempts to send with his trembling fingers but eventually the message pops onto the screen. For a moment he stares at the device, waiting for his sister's reply, and sure enough, less than a minute later the phone trills. _WTF, Morty?_ Another few minutes and this time it rings, the shrill sound breaking the silence.

" _What the fuck, Morty?_ " Summer repeats, sounding more irritated than alarmed. " _You and Grandpa_ _Rick on another space adventure or whatever?_ " At the sound of Rick's name Morty at last begins to break, lower lip trembling as he tries to keep his cool. "H-he's dead, Summer. Drank himself to death or s-something. Please, just come home, ok? Please..."

" _What?! Omigod..."_ Morty can hear his sister choke back a sob as she tries to regain her composure. " _I'm on my way,_ " she finally says. " _Did you call Mom and Dad?_ "

"No."

" _I can if you want me to."_

Morty wants to object, spare Summer the horrible task of informing their mom that her father is dead, but instead nods his head. "Yeah, s-sure, thanks." He disconnects and finally dials 911, his still shaking hands struggling to complete the task. It isn't until he hangs up a second time that Morty feels his legs buckle beneath him. It's there on the kitchen floor where Summer finds him, knees drawn to his chin, rocking like a child and crying his eyes out. He can barely answer when the cops barrage him with invasive questions, can't even rise to give his hysterical mother a hug when she finally returns, her scrubs blood red from her latest surgery. Instead it's Summer who embraces her, tells her everything will be all right, who steers her away when the coroner wheels Rick's body to the waiting ambulance. Morty squeezes his eyes shut, unwilling to see the still form of his grandfather, and hates himself. For being so weak when his mother needs him; for not noticing that something was off this morning; for not going into the damn garage just a few minutes earlier. It didn't matter that the coroner placed the time of death to be around three that morning ( _when he usually gets me up for his adventures. I should have gotten up. Goddamn it, I should have woken up!)._

Finally the place clears, and Morty is once again alone in the kitchen. He's long since stopped crying, but his eyes remain bloodshot and he heads to the kitchen sink to cool the burn. For several minutes he stands there, staring out into the back yard where he can still see the graves of the other Rick and Morty, a blank expression on his face. For a moment, he gets the crazy idea to find his grandfather's portal gun, find a reality where a Morty had just died, and slip into his place. He's done it before, after all. It might take some time to understand how the technical stuff works, but he can figure it out.

 _Don't think about it._ _It's not like we can do this every week, anyways. We get three or four of these, tops._

Morty sighs, heads into the living room. His mother is sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in her unsteady grasp as his father tries to comfort her. He hates Rick, always had, and Morty can sense that the man is not truly grieving the loss of his father-in-law. But he isn't completely heartless. Once the teen enters the room, his dad heads over to give him a comforting hug. "I know he meant a lot to you son," he says in a rare moment of genuine caring, and Morty finds the tears once more leaking from beneath closed lids. "Yeah," he mumbles, allowing himself to be embraced. "Yeah, he did."

That night there is little sleep in the Smith home. Summer locks herself in her bedroom, curled beneath the blankets and staring into space; Beth is on her second bottle of wine, on the verge of passing out, too drunk to do anything other than mumble incoherently about how her father has abandoned her again. And Morty sits in Rick's garage, portal gun in hand, as he once again toys with the idea of running. He's found a dimension where he has recently died; where one of his and Rick's adventures has gone wrong, and his grandfather has yet to tell his family what has happened. It would be so simple to just slip right in, with nobody the wiser. Of course, Rick would know, would probably miss his original Morty, but knowing his grandpa, would adjust relatively fine. He'd kept the replacement Morty voucher given to him months ago, after all. Everything would be fine.

And then he thinks of his family here. True, they are not his real parents and sister. They still roamed god knows where in the Cronenberg universe. But he has grown to love them as his own, even his dead beat dad. He imagines his mom, already a wreck, following in her father's footsteps and sighs. He can't do this to them. He loves Rick (probably more than the old man loved him), but he'd only been in his life for a little over a year. He can't abandon his family for a man who'd done the very same thing to his daughter years earlier.

"Jesus, Rick," Morty says sadly, and gently returns the portal gun to the shelf.

XXX

|Morty wakes up the next morning and forgets he's gone.

He looks at the empty chair at the breakfast table, and opens his mouth to ask where Rick is; only to be blindsided with the memory that his grandfather isn't coming back. He picks at a bowl of Strawberry Smiggles and remembers binge watching hours of inter dimensional cable. Breakfast is over quickly, nobody having really eaten much, and Morty mechanically grabs his backpack and heads to the bus stop. He'd been given permission to skip school today, and Summer quickly takes advantage of the offer, but there's no way Morty can stay home. There are too many reminders of Rick, and at least going to class would (hopefully) be enough of a distraction for at least six hours or so. He settles into his seat in home room, trying to distract himself by looking through his math text.

"Morty, oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

Of course the whole school would know. Feeling hot tears once more threaten to spill, Morty looks up to see Jessica standing by his desk, a sympathetic expression on her face. The teen smiles faintly, for once wishing his crush would just go away and leave him be. "Th-thanks, J-Jessica," he stammers. "We – we're all in shock, y'know. It was really sudden."

 _Was it? The guy's catchphrase literally translates into "I am in great pain. Please help me."_

"Well, I'm here if you need me, Morty." Jessica leans over,gently placing a chaste kiss on Morty's cheek and walks away, settling down at her own desk. She's probably going to forget about the whole ordeal, slip back into her own little world of high school drama and teen angst. Perhaps it isn't fair of him to judge, but the odds that any of his classmates would care about the death of stupid Morty Smith's whack job grandfather is slim, to none. Morty wipes his eyes and tries to focus on his unfinished math homework, already regretting his decision to come to school. Not that he's worried about not turning it in. He's already suspecting that he'll get a pass on any incomplete assignments for the next few days.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur of condolences and unwanted attention. At dismissal Morty heads home, far from surprised to see his mom passed out on the couch, an empty wine bottle on the floor beside her, the remaining wine spilling onto the carpet. "Jeez, Mom," he mutters, picking up the bottle and covering his mother with an afghan. With a sigh, he reaches for the other empties and heads to the kitchen to toss them in the recycling bin. Sitting at the table is his dad, casually reading the newspaper and eating lunch, chuckling between bites of tuna on rye.

"Hah, that Marmaduke! Always good for a laugh."

"What the _fuck_ Dad?!"

"Oh, _hey,_ Morty! How was school? Workin' hard or hardly workin', you know what I mean?" Laughing at his own joke, Jerry playfully punches his son on the shoulder and washes down his bite of sandwich with a can of Coke before returning to his comics page.

"How could you, Dad?! Seriously!"

"What? You want to read the funny pages? Hold your horses, son. I'm almost done."

Morty can feel his cheeks burning, a rage he hasn't felt since Rick Cronenberged the planet months earlier. "I don't believe you. Rick is _dead_ and all you care about is – is – is fucking _Marmaduke?!_ Seriously, what is _wrong_ with you?"

Jerry lets the half eaten sandwich drop on his plate, mouth agape. For a moment, he is too stunned to come up with a reply. And then his own face contorts in anger.

"Now, you just watch your mouth, Morty. I'm still your father. As for Rick, I feel sorry for you kids and your mom, but as far as I'm concerned, the man was a terrible influence on you. Dragging you out on _adventures_ in the middle of the goddamned night, living rent free in _my_ house, keeping god knows what in our garage. Did you know that there was an _alien_ beneath the garage, Morty? An _alien!_ And don't forget he was an alcoholic, abandoned your mother..." Jerry lists off Rick's transgressions on his fingers as casually as one might discuss politics. "The list goes on. Look son, I get it. You love your grandpa. It's only natural. But the man had issues. He was dangerous. You're just too young to see how destructive he really was."

"I'm not naive, Dad. I know Rick's self destructive. But he's _family._ And if you don't care that he's gone, well, then... I guess you're not much better than him."

"Wait, Morty. I -"

But Morty is beyond caring at this point. He turns and storms out of the kitchen, runs to his bedroom, and slams the door. How could his father be that heartless? That – that- nonchalant about Rick's death? God knows the man wasn't perfect, and had gotten him in more sticky situations than he can count for his own benefit. But he was also his grandpa: the man who taught him how to drive his ship; who marathoned _Ball Fondlers_ with him on school nights and took him and Summer out for ice cream; who'd killed the rapist Mr. Jellybean without hesitation.

The one who had once called him the Mortiest Morty with a pride he had unsuccessfully attempted to mask.

A knock on his door interrupts Morty's thoughts and he looks up. "Summer?" he asks with a sniffle.

Sure enough, the door opens slightly and Summer peeks in, flushed, eyes still red from crying. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

Summer gently closes the door behind her and settles beside her brother on the bed. "You ok? I heard you yelling at Dad. Was he being a dick again?"

Morty smiles faintly at his sister's casual name dropping. "Pretty much, yeah. He doesn't really care that Rick's..." He trails off, picking at a stray piece of lint on his blanket. Beside him, Summer nods in understanding. "Figured as much."

"The shitty thing is, though, he's kinda right." Morty bunches up the blanket in his hands, squeezing the fleece material until his knuckles ache. "He really _is_ an abusive dick. He once made me shove these -"

"Ew, Morty, gross!"

Morty surprises himself when he chuckles at the memory. "It wasn't really a fun experience. I mean, a lot of my adventures with Rick were really terrible. Remember when he called us equally pieces of shit and came up with a diagram proving it?"

"You do realize that was Grandpa Rick's way of saying he loves us both, right? Besides, I also remember you said that he sacrificed himself for you. Don't think he'd bother if he didn't care." Summer reaches for his brother's hand, still grasping the blanket, and Morty finds himself relaxing. "It's just – he showed so many m-mixed signals, y-y'know? One minute he buys us ice cream, the next he tells me I'm an idiot who's only good enough to use as a shield. I should hate his guts, but- but..." Morty can feel his lower lip quiver and his eyes once more begin to water. "I miss him, Summer. I miss Grandpa Rick." He buries his face in his hands and begins to sob, his sister beside him, arms wrapped around his heaving shoulders. "I know," she says softly. "I miss him too."

XXX

Morty never tells Summer about how he had planned to abandon them. Some things are better left unsaid. Sometimes he believes his sister suspects that he had considered leaving, can catch that look of yearning in his eyes whenever their mother reaches for the wine bottle or their dad comments about how peaceful the place is now. He never mentions Rick directly, but it is obvious that he is referring to the peace and quiet his absence has ensured. Gradually life returns to normal; their parents go back to arguing, making up, and arguing again, an endless cycle Summer secretly wishes will result in a divorce. Morty returns to school, once more on the brink of flunking out, and occasionally wonders why Rick hasn't interrupted one of his classes to drag him off on one of his latest adventures. Spring transitions into summer, and Morty "celebrates" his fifteenth birthday with a bottle of Jack Daniels he's found in Rick's old bedroom. He sits in the now empty garage, drunk, toying again with his grandfather's portal gun. By now the charge has depleted, rendering it completely useless; but he punches buttons regardless, pointing the device aimlessly around the room.

"Rick and Morty forever and forever a hundred years," he slurs, and burps in a very Rick-like fashion. He swallows another generous swig of whisky and immediately it comes back up, the bile burning his throat. When at last the nausea somewhat abates, he leans back, wiping his mouth, and stumbles to his bedroom, passing out on his bed.

XXX

It is the one year anniversary of Rick's death, and Morty wishes he'd just used the damn portal gun when he had the chance.

Messed up to begin with, his family has now gone off the deep end. His father has moved back in following their separation. Still unable (or perhaps unwilling) to find work, he once more spends his days flipping for a few minutes through online classifieds and working on his golf game. His mother is never home, having been promoted at the horse hospital. Her nights, when not spent working overtime, are at Gavin's. Summer has moved out, studying for her Bachelor of Science at University of Colorado Denver in hopes of following in Rick's footsteps. It's not easy work, but Morty knows his sister is a lot smarter than people think. She seems happy enough, at least judging from the few phone calls and visits. She never mentions Rick, even when one of her visits coincides with their grandfather's birthday. Morty is all too happy to oblige, adapting Rick's age old trick of repressing painful memories. "Don't think about it," his grandpa would repeat, and the boy would comply. He smiles, laughs, daydreams of Jessica in hopes of distracting himself from his fucked up home life.

But today, Morty can no longer keep up the charade. He still grieves for his grandfather. And he's _pissed._ The man who'd abandoned his mother as a young girl had once again left them. Only this time, there was no going back. It doesn't matter that _his_ Rick is not technically his mother's father: he's been dead a good five months or so before his grandfather. All that matters to Morty is that Rick is gone, he isn't coming back, and that his mother once again is struggling to deal.

"Fuck you, Rick," Morty grumbles. He's once again in the older man's garage, which has long since been emptied of his grandfather's things. Even after a year, the boy still isn't used to seeing the space so clutter free, or without the lingering smell of booze, grease, and cheap cologne: all scents, while not exactly pleasant, reminded him of Rick. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, can see his grandfather sitting at his work bench, working on some sort of device in between sips from his flask. The image is so vivid, Morty finds himself squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to block it from his brain. When he opens them again, he once again is staring at a normal garage, the only boxes being the typical household clutter his family now has room to store. Confident that the space is once again Rick free, Morty gets up and heads back to the kitchen. He's about to open the door when something catches his eye on the shelf above him. A box, crudely labelled "Rick's Shit: Do Not Touch", barely visible beneath the heavy strokes crossing off the message, sits in the back, collecting dust. In its place, Rick has written "Morty: Open In Case of Death." Curious, the boy grabs a stool and carefully unfolds the flaps. Inside is a small, grey case, a note,and a list of instructions, written as neat as possible in his grandfather's chicken scratch handwriting.

 _Morty,_

 _If you're reading this note, I'm dead. Yeah, kicked the bucket. But even if (and I mean HUGE IF) I make a mistake and get myself killed, I can still get out of it. I'm a Rick, Morty, and Ricks are fucking geniuses. As long as you don't fuck this up, you should have your grandpa back in no time. See the grey box, Morty? Looks like a suitcase. Inside is a small vial of my DNA. Remember when you killed the Simpsons, Morty? Squished those motherfuckers with my space ship? This is the same deal. Just DON'T FUCK IT UP. I added careful instructions and you need to follow them EXACTLY. Can you handle that, Morty? Look under my workbench, there's a button underneath the stool. Press that and look in the trap door on the ground below. You'll find some weird looking thing, looks a bit like my portal gun. Read the instructions CAREFULLY before you use this thing. I can't stress enough how important it is you don't fuck this up. I'll see you soon._

 _Rick_

Morty stares at the note, dumbfounded. What the fuck is happening? Was that box just waiting for him the entire year? He could have basically regenerated Rick from day one? For a moment he stands there, too shocked to do anything other than reread his grandfather's note. Finally, he walks over to the workbench, feeling beneath the worn wood for the button. It isn't difficult to find, and sure enough, after pressing it, a trap door opens beneath it. Morty reaches for the device inside, blowing off a year's worth of dust coating it, and carries it to the box. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he opens the grey case and carefully removes the vial of Rick's DNA. With trembling hands he inserts the vial in the designated slot on the gadget and adjusts the settings according to the instructions. After five painstaking minutes, the process is ready. In a matter of seconds, his grandfather could be standing beside him again, as if nothing had even happened. "Jesus, this is fucked up," he mutters as he triple checks his work one final time. "Okay, here goes."

The dark garage immediately is filled with a green light, similar to that of the portal gun. For a moment, nothing happens, and Morty is afraid he's messed something up somewhere. This was his only chance to bring back Rick, and he failed. And then, he hears a bubbling sound, followed by the form of a familiar pair of loafers and brown slacks. In less than a minute, Rick stands before him, looking no worse for the wear, swallowing a generous amount of alcohol from his ever present flask. 

"Jesus, M-Morty, took you long enough."

But Morty ignores the sarcastic comment. Dropping the "regenerator", the boy runs to his grandfather and wraps his arms around his waist, eyes bright with tears. "Rick!"

"Why are you being so cl-URP-ingy, Morty?" Rick demands, more than a little perturbed. "It's not my fault you waited till god knows when to bring me back." He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that the kid is being an overemotional mess until suddenly the tears stop and Morty shoves him backwards, a rage he hasn't felt in ages burning inside.

"Really? You've been dead for a fucking _year_ Rick! I had to live with the fact that I spent all fucking night and the next morning not bothering to check on you. I ate my goddamn breakfast while you were dead not one hundred feet from me! Do you not know how _awful_ I felt thinking I could have done something? _I_ was the one who found you in the garage, by the way, Rick. That really does something to a kid, you know. It's really messed up. And here you are, being an- an asshole, bitching at me because I didn't do something I had no idea I was supposed to do because somebody hid the fucking box somewhere I couldn't see it. So excuse me if I'm a little clingy because the only – only friend I ever had just came back from th- th- the..."

At this, Morty once again breaks down, and hugs Rick again, burying his tear stained, snot covered face in the man's lab coat. But this time the scientist doesn't object. Instead, he awkwardly wraps his own arms around the boy, letting him cry. It is a very un-Rick thing for him to do, but he figures the kid earned it. It wasn't his fault he had no clue what to look for. Hell, no doubt Jerry was the one to hide the box in the first place. He feels his usual anger build up as he thinks about what his grandson has gone through in the past year, but manages to keep it at bay as he allows himself to be cried on. And when the boy's tears are spent and Morty finally breaks the hug, the two sit on Rick's work bench, watching the sun set from the open garage door. Neither are ready to face Beth and Jerry at the moment: Morty is mentally and emotionally exhausted, and Rick is far from eager to go through the same thing with his daughter. They talk about space, going on new adventures, the best ice cream in the galaxy. And when Morty finally falls asleep, head against his grandfather's shoulder, Rick doesn't push him away. Instead he pulls his flask from his lab coat and drinks. Now that the kid is asleep, he no longer has to keep playing this charade. He knows that he will never try to end it again: he does love Morty, no matter how much the kid pisses him off. He never wants to put him through that kind of hell again. But he still can't mask the pain; only numb it. With a sigh, he empties the flask and leans back, closing his eyes. Eventually, as the first signs of morning light creep in the garage, he falls asleep, his grandson by his side.


End file.
